“Where are you?”
His voice is hoarse, labored. It physically pains me to hear.
“O-over h-here!”
It’s faint, but he’s ahead. I push through the smoke, the billowing clouds of tarred obsidian, the pervasive fumes that work to inch into my suit. Thomas writhes on the ground. On top of him are wooden beams. He’s coated in drywall and plaster. The sound of my name crescendos, but I ignore their pleas, focusing on the man who made my life a living hell.
I’m no savior. I’m doing this for me.
“Help,” he strains. “Please.”
I hook both arms underneath a beam, squat, and then attempt to lift its heavy mass. It hardly budges. Thomas shudders beneath it and elicits an elongated groan. I crouch again,attempting to create enough space for him to escape. When the beam lifts ever so slightly, Thomas catches on, pushing with all the strength he can muster. Conin and Atlas are growing louder. I think I can hear their impending footsteps above the chaos.
Thomas pushes and pushes, I pull and pull, and the beam gives way enough for him to slip through. He crawls from the space, panting and gathering the air forced from him. He’s on his hands and knees, gasping for breath, but the fire invades his nostrils. He hacks and splutters. I gaze down at him in what probably resembles pity. Now confronted with Thomas, I have no idea what to say . . . what to do. Instead, I stand there as the train station holds on for dear life.
“Don’t think this changes anything,” Thomas says. I wonder if I heard him correctly or if my mind’s machinations are leaning into the familiar.
I’m gravely disappointed.
“Thomas—”
“I hate you.”
“Let’s get out of here!”
“I said I hate you!” he bellows.
“Yeah?”
I’m not surprised. I’m not surprised in the fucking slightest.
My partners are somewhere behind me.
“Ezra!” they call. “Ezra!”
I laugh. I can’t stop it. I’m hysterical, eyes only for Thomas, who cranes his neck to take me in. He’s nothing but loathing and detestation. His face is contorted with seething cruelty. All it does is make me laugh.
“Fuck you,” he coughs.
“I should’ve let you die,” I hiss.
He’s done nothing but make me hate myself. He’s done nothing but hurt and scar and make me wish I was dead so I wouldn’t have to face this painful existence. For a momentthere . . . for a small, minuscule moment, I thought the rift between us could be repairable. When I search his face, I find the scorning, hateful likeness of Lukeman Gray. I see a family in shambles, beyond salvation.
A life that could’ve been, but will never be.
And the world that drove us apart.
That hurt us both and left us for dead.
He and I are both products of what our failing society created.
Amalgamations, less than human.
Brothers with no semblance of family.
With no parents to love them.
Thax bulls into me, driving me to the littered ground. His hand locates the emblem centered on the suit’s chest plates that detract the entirety of it from my body. He presses down. The only protection I have dissipates. I’m vulnerable to the elements. Thax takes deadly, squeezing fingers to my neck and crushes. He presses on skin and muscles—tighter and tighter. As I gasp for air, I inhale an abundance of fumes and ash.
